“Tell me this. When Cadwal is beaten, and the Imagery has been defeated, and Joyse is deprived of kingship, who is going to rule Mordant and Termigan? Who is going to have authority over my Care?”
Prince Kragen replied with surprising promptness, “The lady Elega.”
Elega? Terisa thought as if she had been kicked.
“She is your King’s eldest daughter, his rightful heir. And I have had the pleasure of her acquaintance in recent days. She understands power and rule better than you know.” He paused. “And she is not Alend.”
“A woman,” groaned the Armigite, apparently seeking to regain lost stature. “Then you will marry her, and Margonal will become king over us.”
Kragen’s eyes glittered dangerously, but he didn’t deign to retort. Instead, he asked the Termigan, “Is she acceptable to you, my lord?”
“My lords,” interposed the Fayle. For the first time, he unfolded his arms and put his long, thin fingers flat on the table. The veins in the backs of his hands bulged crookedly. “This must stop.”
At once, every eye in the room was on him.
“I have heard enough.” He sounded old and tired; yet there was an undercurrent of firmness in his voice. “If you mean to accept this alliance, you must be content to do so against my opposition. Fayle will support the King.”
In an apologetic tone, he added, “You must understand that I am the father of his wife. Queen Madin is a formidable woman. Whatever choice I make here, I must justify to her.”
“Women and women!” The Perdon was on his feet, his clenched in anger. “Must Mordant be destroyed because you cannot stand before your own daughter? Or because Prince Kragen is enamored of Elega? Or because”—he brandished his mustache at Terisa—”Master Eremis desires to bed this product of Imagery? My lords, such questions are not important! Our ruin musters against us while we debate petty considerations. We must—”
“No, my lord Perdon. “Though the Termigan didn’t raise his voice, he made himself heard through the Perdon’s ire. “You’ll do what you want. But you’ll do it without me. My lord Fayle is too polite to say what he thinks. I’m not so courteous. There is some plot here. My lord Prince agrees with all this too easily. I know the Alend Monarch. When he closes his hand around Mordant, he won’t release it – not unless the lady Elega has already agreed to become his proxy.”
He got to his feet. “Make all the alliances you can. I trust no Alend or Imager.” Roughly, he strode from the room.
For a moment, no one moved or spoke. The Termigan’s unexpected declaration appeared to have shocked everyone. Terisa was reeling at the sudden collapse of Master Eremis’ plans. He looked like he wanted to laugh; she interpreted that as fury.
“One thing more,” said the Fayle. He, too, was standing. “Master Eremis, Master Gilbur – you must not translate this figure of power.”
Master Eremis only cocked an eyebrow. The Armigite looked like he was trying to shrink down in his seat, so that he would be ready to duck under the table. But the Perdon stared accumulated outrage at the Fayle. And Master Gilbur demanded in quick anger, “Not?”
“You will violate the King’s express commands. And more – you will violate the purpose for which the Congery was conceived. You must not do it.”
“That purpose is Joyse’s, not ours!” retorted Gilbur. “We will not allow some doddering old fool to tell us our duty.” Abruptly, he hit the table so hard that the Tor’s abandoned flagon toppled to the floor. “We mean to survive!”
“Then,” murmured the Fayle sadly, “I must tell the King what you intend.”
Terisa felt a sting of panic as she saw everything Master Eremis had tried to achieve backfire.
Prince Kragen was on his feet with his bodyguards.
The Perdon faced the Fayle across the table. “Do you mean to betray us, my lord Fayle?”
“No, my lord Perdon,” the Fayle answered as though he were grieving. “I will say nothing of this meeting. I mean only to prevent the Imagers from betraying their King.”
He should have looked foolish as he left the room: he was old and thin, and his erect carriage emphasized his peaked shoulders, his ill-proportioned head. The men he opposed were younger, stronger, handsomer. But he didn’t look foolish. To her astonishment, Terisa considered him admirable. His loyalty touched her. She could imagine Geraden greeting the Fayle’s exit with applause.
When the old lord was gone, Master Eremis threw back his head and let out a sound like the cry of a loon.
“Oh, control yourself, Eremis!” growled Master Gilbur. The hunchbacked Imager was plainly furious. “I warned you that this would happen. These lords forget every lesson of the past, but they remember that they do not trust Imagery. I have said from the beginning that we must take our own action and let the Cares fend for themselves.”
“Yes, Master Gilbur,” said Eremis. “You did indeed warn me. You warned me often.” With a sudden push, he left his chair. Speaking rapidly, urgently, he said. “My lord Prince, my lord Perdon, you must excuse me.” He ignored the Armigite. “Despite Master Gilbur’s warning, I did not anticipate this outcome.” His face was so knotted that Terisa couldn’t read it. “Our fellow Masters are already at work, preparing the champion’s translation. We must go to them at once, before the Fayle is able to bring down the King’s wrath. If they are caught in the act of a forbidden translation, I fear that our kind King will re-institute the practice of execution.
“My lord Prince, will you see that the lady Terisa is returned to her rooms?”
Without waiting for an answer, Master Eremis said, “Come, Master Gilbur,” and hurried away.
Master Gilbur followed as quickly as his bent back allowed.
Terisa sat where she was, too confused to move. Why did she admire the Fayle, when he and the Termigan had ruined Master Eremis’ efforts to save Mordant? And why was the translation already started? The Congery had agreed to wait for the outcome of this meeting.
“It is too bad, my lord Prince,” the Armigite was saying, “that the courage to accept your offer of alliance is so scarce. I would be willing to discuss a private union. I would require protection against reprisals. In exchange, I would—”
His voice trailed away; no one was listening to him.
“My lord Prince,” said the Perdon stiffly, “please forgive the failure of this meeting – and the insult. I can only assure you that Master Eremis and I meant well. It will not be wise to linger here. Shall I relieve you of the lady Terisa?”
“No apology is needed, my lord Perdon.” Prince Kragen didn’t appear as upset as Terisa expected. “It is true that my mission has met little success. Frankly, I do not see how Mordant and Alend can now be saved from war.” He gave Terisa a sparkling black glance and grinned. “But perhaps my fortunes will improve. I am in the lady’s debt. I will happily escort her.”
“As you wish.” The Perdon bowed brusquely, pulled his cloak around him, and left.
Almost at once, the Armigite scrambled after him, as though the younger lord were afraid to be left behind. When he reached the corridor, Terisa heard him call out to the Perdon, asking for company. She didn’t hear the Perdon’s answer.
“My lady.” Prince Kragen had his hands on the back of her chair. “Will you come?” He was bowing slightly over her and smiling. “As the Perdon has said, it is not wise to linger.”
She didn’t know how to interpret his smile. It reminded her to some degree of Master Eremis’. At the same time, it suggested that the Prince was a better diplomat, better able to conceal his feelings. His self-assurance was as good as a mask.
She rose in compliance. She had learned her manners from her father.
He pulled the chair out of her way, then took her arm, holding her closely but without undue intimacy. With one bodyguard ahead of him and one behind, he guided her from the room.
Almost without transition, the temperature of the air dropped. The sound of dripping water seemed to creep around her.
&n
bsp; “Are you warm enough, my lady?” the Prince asked softly. “You are not warmly dressed.”
She should have murmured some noncommittal reply. But she had lost the ability to be as compliant as she appeared. In instinctive self-defense, she answered with a question of her own. “Do you really know Elega?”
She felt him stiffen. He was silent for a moment. Then he said politely, “My lady, it is customary to address me by my title.”
“My lord Prince.”
He let an easy laugh into the dank passage. “Thank you. Yes, it has been my great pleasure to make the acquaintance of the lady Elega. I have had considerable leisure since the debacle of my audience with King Joyse.”
The boots of the bodyguards made crisp crack-and-spatter noises as they strode through puddles of water thinly crusted with ice. When the light of the lanterns was right, she could see her breath steaming. Without conscious boldness, she asked, “Then why are you interested in me?”
Again, he fell momentarily silent, as though he needed time to digest her question and marshall a reply. “My lady,” he answered finally, “if another woman asked that question, I would know better how to respond. Can you be unaware that you have a face and form that would interest any man? Perhaps you can. Yet I suspect that your question had another meaning.
“If you are not a coquette – if your question is not meant to entice me – I will answer frankly. I am much impressed by the lady Elega. King Joyse has done more than he knows in producing such a daughter.”
Terisa breathed an almost audible sigh of relief.
There was a hitch in the leading bodyguard’s stride, a flicker of hesitation. Then he resumed his steady pace.
A chill reached both hands through Terisa’s shirt.
“Few Mordants clearly understand, I think,” Prince Kragen went on with apparent irrelevance, “that the rule of Alend is not hereditary. When my father, the present Alend Monarch, dies, I will not automatically assume his Seat in Scarab. Rather, the new Monarch will be chosen by contest from among all those who wish to vie for rule.
“Incidentally,” he commented, “it is this method of choosing rulers that has preserved the confederacy of the Alend Lieges. Those unruly barons remain faithful to Scarab because they know that they or their families will always have another opportunity to win the Seat.
“This contest is not formal, of course. It has simply evolved. In former times, it was primarily a test of ruthlessness. Whoever butchered, poisoned, or terrified enough of his opponents into submission became Monarch.
“Peace has its benefits, however,” he continued. His voice formed a murmuring undertone to the damp echo of bootheels. “And the Alend Monarch is devoted to wisdom, as I have said repeatedly. Now people who desire to rule Alend are not allowed to fester in private, scheming murder. They are publicly acknowledged, and they are tested in the service of the kingdom. Put simply, they are given opportunity to demonstrate that they are fit for the Seat.” He chuckled briefly. “One mad old baron put his son forward in recent years – and then went privately about the business of trying to slaughter all opposition. His son was given the test of bringing the baron to justice.
“As it happens, he succeeded admirably.
“My lady,” he said ruefully, “this mission is a test for me. And it does not provide much hope. You could safely wager, I fear, that I will not be the next Alend Monarch.”
At once, however, he assumed a more cheerful tone. “But we were discussing the lady Elega. I mention all this so that you will understand me when I say that if she were an Alend the Seat of the Monarch would not be closed to her. I believe that she would stand high among the powers of the Kingdom.”
The leading bodyguard hesitated again. This time, he nearly froze in mid-stride. Cold suddenly licked across Terisa’s heart. She thought she heard the same thing he did – a quiet leather sound which reminded her of swords and sheaths.
Prince Kragen snatched at his blade. He had time to snap, “Beware! Guard the lady!” Then the darkness attacked.
Men charged out of a side passage. How many? She couldn’t tell – five or six. Cloaks fluttered from their shoulders like wings. Their leather armor was so black it was difficult to see. Lantern light glinted on bare iron.
They struck straight for her through the opposition of the Prince and his bodyguards.
Swords rang, echoing in the passage. Baleful red sparks sprayed from the conflict of blades. Violence streaked her vision. She saw the head of the nearest bodyguard lift from his shoulders and away like a ball negligently tossed aside. Then a handful of hot blood slapped her face, and his corpse fell into her, driving her against the wall.
Slipping on blood and ice, she sprawled beside the body.
Two attackers drove Prince Kragen back. He was quick with his sword, stronger than he appeared; but his opponents were expert. He couldn’t dispatch two of them at once. The force of their double-handed blows hammered him down the passage.
One of the attackers stretched out on the stone, coughing his lungs into a puddle of water. The other bodyguard still kept his feet – barely. He held one arm clamped to a gushing wound in his side; with the other, he flailed his sword at his assailant.
With a deft toss, the assailant flipped his cloak over the bodyguard’s head.
Then Terisa lost sight of him. A black figure reared over her, sword poised.
The light caught his face. His nose was like the edge of a hatchet. A fierce grin bared his teeth. His eyes gleamed, as yellow as a cat’s.
He was trying to kill her again.
This time, he was going to succeed. There was nothing she could do to stop him, and she still didn’t know why he wanted her dead, she had no idea, it didn’t make any sense—
“Stop!”
The shout caught him. It echoed in the corridor, wrenching him away from her to protect his back.
A drawling voice said clearly, “Five against three are coward’s odds. But even a coward wouldn’t attack a woman.”
Fighting her eyes into focus, Terisa saw the man with the gray cloak advancing along the passage.
The obscure light left his features unclear: she couldn’t tell if she had ever seen his face before. But his sword was in his hands. The smile on his lips didn’t soften the glint of battle in his eyes.
An attacker drew his blade out of the cloak-blinded bodyguard and moved to join the man threatening Terisa. Her assailant gestured help away, however, sending his companion toward the struggle to kill Prince Kragen.
Black against gray, Terisa’s enemy and the newcomer faced each other.
For a moment, they paused. The man in gray commented pleasantly, “It might be interesting to know who you are.”
The man in black barked a laugh and exploded at his opponent.
Iron flashed and scraped. Blows resounded. The man in black was knocked to the wall. He recovered and countered as if he were immune to pain. With his cloak, he made an attempt to snare the man in gray. The ploy failed. Their swords clashed, caught and held, clashed again. Attacking, retreating, flinging their bodies from side to side, they wove quick sparks about them like fireworks.
The man in gray kept smiling, but his concentration was savage.
Terisa should have helped. She knew that. She should have gotten to her feet, picked up one of the fallen swords, tried to intervene. For Prince Kragen. Or the man in gray. But she didn’t move. Instead, she lay on the cold, wet stone with her hands at her temples, terrified by the enormity of what was happening because of her.
She had no idea why. What had she done to deserve such hate? Or to be defended from it?
The man in gray moved with such speed that it was difficult to realize how graceful he was, difficult to follow the way his sword swept and cut as if it were avid in his hands. He and his opponent wove gloom and echoes and hot sparks around each other. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he blocked his opponent’s blade, then dropped one fist from his sword hilt and struck a backh
and blow that staggered the man in black.
Smoothly, almost contemptuously, Terisa’s attacker brushed aside the onslaught that followed. He gripped her defender’s blade with one gloved hand long enough to chop his elbow down on the man in gray’s neck.
The man in gray staggered to the floor. He caught himself on one knee, countered a brutal assault, regained his feet. He was still smiling, still smiling. But his opponent had single-handedly beaten Argus and Ribuld. Sweat ran from his face. The lanterns showed a glare of desperation in his eyes.
Shouts rang along the corridor. He made the mistake of glancing to see what they meant.
His opponent responded with a belly-thrust so swift it couldn’t be parried.
He parried it.
The convulsive effort cost him his balance, however. Although he stopped the next blow with his blade, it was so powerful that it knocked him on his back.
For a fraction of a second, he was as helpless as Terisa.
Then Prince Kragen sprang into the struggle, whirling his bloody blade.
The Perdon was only half a step behind him.
The man in black flung a look of yellow hate at Terisa.
An instant later, he leaped back. His hands and sword made a strange gesture.
Without warning, he disappeared. Before the echoes of combat died, he was gone from the passage as completely as if he had never been there.
The Perdon gaped. Prince Kragen dropped his sword in stunned surprise. The man in gray regained his feet, hunting the air as though he thought he might hear or smell some sign of his opponent.
Shivering, Terisa got her arms under her and pushed her chest off the floor.
The Prince was breathing in harsh gasps, near exhaustion, but he went to look at his men. When he saw that one of them had been beheaded, he clenched his fists over his heart, and his face twisted into a snarl. “They were my friends,” he rasped. “I was in your debt, my lady. But now I think I have made repayment.”
The Mirror of Her Dreams Page 35
